


Escaping the Valley of Ashes

by AceQueenKing



Category: Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Literary References & Allusions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-08 21:15:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8862337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: In the end, their relationship comes down to violence. It always has, and if Harley can't find a way to break the cycle, it always will. (Or: A story of a broken woman, a hot gun, a damnable bat, and a joker wild, and far too many emotional issues to be, from a former psychiatrist's perspective, entirely healthy.)





	1. The Green Light Upon the Shore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WintryGooseball](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WintryGooseball/gifts).



_This is a valley of ashes – a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of ash-grey men, who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air,_ Harley read, and it reminded her of nothing so much as Gotham.

She took a sip of her espressso and flipped to the next page of _The Great Gatsby_. She'd taken it out of the prison cart, now that it had been going from  cell to cell - thanks to Croc. She had picked this one because she had enjoyed the cover; not that she had much else to base her picks on. The guards didn't let'em get close enough to the cart to read the back of the book. 

Still, this had been a good choice. She hadn't cared much for the previous one, _Vanity Fair_ -  the woman gazing at herself in a cracked mirror had been promising, but the story had nothing to do with a woman who saw someone else in the mirror, like her. It had been all social niceties and knives behind the back - which was all society was. _Duh_.  

 _Gatsby_ though, that held some promise. She was getting to Gatsby starin' at the green light and how  _romantic_ it was, him all fixated on the house on the shore, when the familiar sound of bullets made her look up, the green light's spell broken. 

She stood, listening as carefully as she could, her breath catching. The bullets were flying fast; semi-automatics. A decent gang if they were able to get more than one down here; no one down here ran as intense a gun game as the Joker's gang had. She watched the hallway as guards scrambled toward near her cell. That was interesting. Her breath caught in her throat as she considered the options - she was a relatively low-value prisoner, now. The Suicide Squad hadn't been called in months, not since they'd sent Floyd back up north to Gotham. For them to all be amassing on her door meant someone thought she was worth something, which meant two options: the Joker and their gang, or someone who hated Joker and the gang. 

There was a familiar rat-a-tat-tat against the door; Harley popped her gum, hoping against hope that it was her Puddin'.

A man in a swat mask approached her door; she swallowed, nearly sendin' her gum down her gullet, but then the man popped off his helmet, and a flash of green put her at ease. Unanswerable questions sprung to mind -  _Where did you go? How did you escape the helicopter crash? Why did you leave me behind -- again?_ but they were swallowed by the brilliant pulse of her heart as her green light-of-her-life gave her a grin and held out a hand.

"Puddin'!" She squealed, and just like that, they were off. 

 She followed him out of darkness, her feet moving quickly as Joker and the disguised henchmen pushed her forward. The old prison was more dilapidated than she thought possible, the walls a filthy ash-grey. The whole courtyard smelled of smoke, though how much that was due to Joker's crew was uncertain. Dick Tracey, his ironic fedora cocked half of the left, gave her a salute before stetting a flamethrower on a poor, unsuspecting camera. It collapsed into grey slag, and the Joker pulled her forward.

Within seconds, they were in front of  _stars_ for the first time in months. It was so romantic, she thought, sighing happily despite the screams of the dying echoing behind her. The Joker shoved her forward roughly until she saw their escape vehicle ca few yards in fornt of them, but then he'd never been the romantic type. 

Harley laughed when she saw it. It was fit for a queen, at least a Gotham one; a motorcycle, spray-painted purple and green, with a unicorn horn glued messily onto the handlebars. It had two engines blazing fire in the back; it thrummed hot and warm, and Harley grinned. It smelled like gasoline, and something else, something she couldn’t quite place - but then, she’d been in the pokey for a long time. Anything that wasn’t dirty air, caffeinated sludge, or stinky, itchy fabric was something new to her.

“Your cha-cha-chariot awaits,” Puddin’ whispered in her ear, before roughly shoving her down onto the bike. She winced as she hit the seat, but then he wrapped his arms around her, and she felt the cold glint of his grin in his low chuckle.

“Let’s gun it!” she said, her voice hoarse. Her blood was pumping — not just from the espresso. His weight behind her was solid, a hint of danger coursing through her veins. She shivered, the discordant straight between her orange rags and the hot bike obvious- Joker was burning hot, a hunka-hunka hunk of heat, but she was so _cold_. He hadn’t brought a coat or a longer outfit for her, but then the shorts and t-shirt had felt fine the last time she had been out.

She wondered, exactly, how many months she had been down there, with little more than an espresso machine and some paper to keep her company. She realized with some sadness that she'd left her book behind, but knew better than to ask Joker to grab it for her.  His hands were busy at her sides, and she wondered if he was going to take her here, rough — but then his fingers thrummed the ignition. She grinned as the two engines on the side, with their own canisters of gas, roused to life.

And then they were off. She wrinkled her nose at the smell - must be a new high-octane fuel her Joker was using. It reminded her of the nitrous at Arkham, down in the medical labs. She laughed, though she wasn’t really sure why; maybe it was just that she was free again, that she was seeing, feeling moonlight, for the first time in months.

She felt alive, awake in a a way she hadn’t been since she'd been locked up in the pokey. 

Once she started laughing, she found she couldn’t stop. Her jaw ached after a few moments, but she was beyond caring about the physical pain. She gripped tighter onto the handlebars. Her fingers hit his; she traced them for a moment. There was fire behind the touch; fire that burned and crackled her skin, but it felt so good she did not _truly_ mind. It was the first time she’d felt happy in months, since the old witchy poo went and exploded.

She glanced back at him for a moment; the leer on his face in response told her that he had felt the spark as clearly as she had. He wasted precious seconds, leering at her menacingly, and she leered back, still laughing, mad and in love. Harleen would have been afraid of this, this all-consuming madness; Harley embraced it, for the good times at least. And this was definitively definitely going to be one of their good times. His eyes reflected the flame of his desire as he looked beyond her, revving the engine.

The machine hummed between her legs, the first taste of real action she’d had in forever. She would have whimpered, had she not still been laughing. She had been doing it long enough her lungs hurt, burned; but this was nothing compared to the acid, the electricity, and it felt so good that she kept doing it despite the pain.

There was an alarm going off in the distance - a klaxon warning that their oh-so-high-tech security system had been breached.

“Take the wheel, sweetheart,” the Joker cackled as he leaned over behind her; she saw the glint of a sharp knife as he pulled one of the canisters and punctured it. A thick, noxious gas spewed out that made her eyes water; she tried to gasp, but choked, gagging as her laughter sputtered into a cough.

 _Nitrous._ It had to be. She was unable to stop herself from seeing it again - her body on the table, Joker cackling above her, a thick smell of gas in the air as he administered shock after shock - and blanched. She leaned down, eyes tearing up. She throttled the engine. She didn’t want him to see her cry. Mister J never took her crying well.

A guard ran at them from the doorway; Joker threw the canister toward him. She heard him gag and retch, and didn’t bother to turn around as she pulled away.

The guards were aware of their escape now; she caught another guard scrambling to hit an alarm, and swerved toward him. Joker grabbed him and threw him easily, laughing. She heard the man splat wetly against the pavement. She did not hear him get up again.

She pulled the throttle harder. They were near the gates now; somehow, they weren’t closed yet. She wondered if he’d broken anyone else out, but there wasn’t time to ask. She hoped that the old guards Joker had brought into her cell to break her out - she’d recognized Patches for his eyes, and Panda for the costume - had made it out of the building.

She gunned it faster; the engines were racing now. She pushed hard, leaning forward, and the Joker threw a knife up into a tower; she looked up for a moment, then wished she hadn’t, as a body slumped forward; female. She looked for a moment like a unicorn, with her mane daintily tied into a bow, then the ash-black figure crumpled, like a doll after play-time.

“Sharp shooting, eh?” he cackled in her ear, his voice dry. She did not laugh now. She shivered, unable to stop the physical recoil, but the Joker took it as a good thing, his voice laughing boorishly as an explosion sounded once more in the distance and they cleared the streets.

And then they were on their way to Gotham.

\- - -

They changed vehicles in Atlanta, and not a moment too soon. She knew they were close to being free when Patches and Panda caught up to her and Joker; she recognized them, even in the leather disguises. Patches and Panda were both old hands of Joker’s; they had run in the crew longer than she had. Both were her favorite kind of minion, ones who were fun to play with — but otherwise silent. They never tried to one-up Joker, never tried to do more with her than she wanted. Patches and Panda knew the limits of the game, and she was thankful.

For their sake and hers. Puddin didn’t play nice.

She hoped that they would take a car after the painful hours of riding from the prison. Her thighs ached from the vibration, and the fumes from the nitrous made her dizzy. But when they pulled into a garage - nondescript, closed; Panda and Patches had scouted ahead - and inside there were another three motorcycles. Clearly Joker had paid someone a “visit” and convinced them it may be best to have preparations in place.

She sighed.

Puddin grabbed a pair of leathers off the rack; there were three of them, nice full suits. Protection. _Warmth._ Meant for men, but she was confident she could fit the smallest. She reached out a hand toward it, but Joker yanked it ahead of her, tossing it to Patches.

“Baby…” She pouted.

He didn’t bother to dignify her with a response, slipping the jacket over his shoulders. Harley was too angry to even acknowledge that she liked how he looked in leather. She folded her arms, one over the other, and he didn’t even realize it until after he’d put the chaps on over his own pants.

“What?” He grunted, pointing toward the other end of the store. “Women’s side is over there.”

She stalked over to the other side; it was far less helpful than the men’s, and somehow even emptier. There were only two things left - a thin, pink helmet that she doubted would offer that much protection, and a leather bra top.

She grabbed the helmet, but left the bra. She did not see why she should have to wear such thin clothing when the henchmen wore full jackets, but she knew better than to demand the clothing off their backs. There were limits to Puddin’s hospitality.

“Hey Mister J,” she said, slipping the helmet over her face. “Can we maybe go to another place? I’m - “

The Joker raised a hand and she stopped, instantly. He walked over to her, a leer on his face but his eyes were cold. She did not dare say more. She caught the henchman glance at one another out of the corner of her eye; they knew, as well as she did, that the boss was in a dangerous mood. He grabbed the bra off the shelf, his fingers caressing the leather. Harley’s stomach dropped - she knew what was coming.

“Put that on,” he growled. He was quite taken with it, she could tell, much to her chagrin.

“But — “

He made a soft shushing sound; she stopped talking. He placed one hand on her chin, his grip at first tender and then _hard._ It hurt, and tears strung in her eyes, but she’d be damned if she let them fall.

“I made a simple, reasonable request, babe. I came all the way down from _Gotham_ for you. _You_ ,” he said, letting go of her jaw. She rubbed it fiercely; the skin was red, irritated. “You put me through a lot of trouble, Harley.”

“I’m sorry, Mister J, I’m — “

“Shh, shh, shh.” He patted her head reassuringly. “Go on, now, Harley. Be a _bad_ girl. 

She nodded, swallowing her discomfort. There was a part of her that was turned on by the expression on his face. He did not look away as she took off her top, his eyes filled with burning _need_ as he handed her the leather bra. Harleen’s voice in her head, however, was not so easily fooled; she wondered, loudly, how they had to come to this, to being watched by three men as she undressed.

Harley found she had no answer.

\- - -

It was dark when they got back home; Joker had taken the scenic route, all dark-alleys and country highways - and a few off-road trails as well. She felt numb; exhausted. They had driven _hours_ \- she had seen the sun go from a mere sliver in the sky to painfully full to nothing at all.

It was _cold_ in Gotham. There was snow on the ground; there had been none when she was last out. In her impossibly small top, she shivered; she felt exposed, and not in a sexy way.

It was dark enough there weren’t many stragglers about; Joker left the helmet on as he gave orders to Patches and Panda. With his hair hidden, he reminded her of the vision the Enchantress had left in her; she could almost pretend his hair was brown, not green. _He married me_ , she mouthed, concentrating on the memory. _We were nice. Normal._

Would he ever do that in the real world? She thought of it a moment, tried to imagine him holding a child between their arms, dancing with her; king and queen of nothing but their own kitchen.

Even Mr. J had to retire sometime, right?

\- - -

Joker had no plan to retire for the night, but, mercifully, he did not drag her to the club.; Instead, they went back into one of his many hide-aways, tucked away in the edges of the city. It was a bad part of town, the type Harleen would never have been seen in; the type her father would have all but disowned her for going to. It was a shabby little place, barely more than a one bedroom lil’ hole in the ground, the kind with the mattress on the floor. And it was home. Sometimes.

He hadn’t been kidding about the bear-skin rug, though; it was a scrappy little thing in front of a trash can filled with newspaper, but it was there.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he growled, all swagger. She sat because she was told to; he pulled a couple drinks from the fridge. She watched — because she liked the way his hands looked, the rings glittering off them…and because she wanted to make sure he didn’t poison the drinks.

She laid out as best she could on the rug; it was clean, at least, the one thing in this place that was.

“So…” The Joker said as he popped the tops off of two glass bottles of grape soda; his favorite, not hers. After so many days of bread and water, her mouth salivated at the thought of it anyway. “You miss me, babe?”

“You know it,” she said, forcing a smile; he did not see it, still working on pouring the sodas. She marveled at his delicate hands.; his fingers were long, the movements precise. He could have been something respectable; nice. A doctor, or a watch-maker. Not a super-villain.

He turned toward her, walking back from the small little kitchen to the floor and. He nestled the drinks between them. There was also a rag and a box of match; the rag smelled strongly of gas, and she wasn’t surprised when he tossed it in the newspapers and sparked a match - Puddin’ wasn’t much for decorating, she supposed, but he liked fire. She grabbed her drink, took a quick sip, but quickly put it down again when he gave her bedroom eyes - hungry and intense blue, drowning her whole.

“Show me,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. He wanted her; she knew that, had known it from the moment he’d sprung her coup. She leaned forward, smiled, and he pressed his head down, his lips meeting hers. Fireworks. She grinned against him as he pressed harder, his mouth opening, his tongue begging for entrance. She teased him, denied him; bit him, once, hard, but it did nothing but multiply his passions toward her.

For all of Harleen’s misgiving's, the warnings she shouted in the little voice that still, somehow, clung to life in Harley’s mind — this, _this_ was something she had never experienced anywhere else. No one else could incite this in her, the way he clung to her, like she was the only way he would ever feel; the only way he ever could.

 _Would you live for me?_ He had asked, once, with his eyes this passionate, this alight, and she had answered by way of baptism, drowning in the acid as well as he had. Even now, as they separated, she found herself lost in his steel-blue eyes; cold eyes, a killer’s eyes, but ones that looked on her with naked, all-consuming _want._

“You missed daddy a lot, I see,” he growled; possessive. His hand tightened on her hip. She moved the sodas. “Bet this is a bit better than fighting some ol’ witch bitch, right?”

“I dunno, puddin’,” she teased him, her fingers tracing his tattoos with her fingernails. The blue on her left hand suited him; it played in pleasing contrast to the dark black of his tattoos in the firelight. “She showed me _us_ , you know.”

“That so?” He grunted. “What would she go and do that for?”

She could tell he was intrigued, despite the impatient tap of his fingers at her waist.

“She was trying to trick me by giving me the one thing I wanted,” she said, her voice baby-soft. This placated the monster in him, she could tell; he grinned, a twenty-four carat glowing smile. It looked like a shark’s grin.

“She give you nasty thoughts, baby?” he asked, and she giggled as he pressed a soft kiss into her neck, and then bit. He bit hard, but not as hard as he would later, she knew; by morning, she would be covered in black and blue bruises, little love-notes from him that would hurt and sting.

She debated lying, debated nodding and getting on with it. But then, if she loved him - and she thought she did, surely she did, for why else would she have thrown away everything to drown in him? - she knew she should be honest.

“Not quite that,” she said, softly; she reached up, unbuttoning his shirt as she talked. “Was more of a retirement scene.”

“All wrinkly and gross?” He laughed, but stopped when her hand caressed his chest. “Not my kind of porno.”

“It wasn’t like that, Mr. J!” she said, indignant, her hands flustered as she reached for his belt buckle.

“You’re wearing far too many clothes, my dear,” he said; he was, no doubt, bored of the story now. His long fingers pulled down one shoulder and his mouth followed, leaving a trail of kisses that made it hard to focus on telling him.

“It was - “ She bit her lip, suddenly a bit ashamed. She wondered what he’d think of it; if he would think it too pedestrian, too _ordinary_. “You and me, and we were in a kitchen, dancing.”

“I prefer dancing on the living room floor,” he growled; he was almost on top of her now, his hands fighting to foil the double-knot she’d tied to keep his favorite bra on during the rough rides.

“It was nice. Calm, quiet.” She smiled; he freed her breasts and flashed her a dizzying smile before his mouth was on her left tit, tongue swirling lazily around her areola. She sucked in a harsh breath, but continued - “Just you, and me, and baby — “

“And baby?” He jerked up abruptly. “Who else you gonna call your baby?”

" _Our_ baby,” she said, her cheeks flushed pink. “That’s what she showed me.”

He stared at her for a moment, his mouth open; eyes curiously still. She watched him, her hand rubbing his side, but he made no movement for a bit. Then he laughed; a crow’s caw, loud and rough.

“J?” She whispered.

“What a dumb idea,” he said, still laughing. Then, as if nothing had happened, he bent down, pressing a soft kiss into her navel. “Stupid witch.”

“Y-Yeah,” she said, blinking back tears in her eyes as he pushed down her shorts, pressing soft kisses all the way down. “A stupid - stupid idea. Can you…can you believe she thought that would work?”

She closed her eyes and tried to focus on the moment; the feel of his hair between her fingers, the pleasant pain of being touched after so long. But a part of her kept focusing on the dream Enchantress had shown her - and now she knew it was just that, only a dream.

In her dreams, Joker swung her around their Formica counter-top, pressing tender kisses into her skin as their child laughed.

In reality, he bit her, claimed her as his as he poured himself into her, their only companion the fire-light of a trash heap.

She knew which she preferred, and it hurt, more than any scar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes: Vanity Fair is a novel written by William Makepeace Thackeray, famously subtitled a novel without a hero. The cover referenced in this fic is the [Wordsworth Classics](https://www.amazon.com/Wordsworth-Classics-William-Makepeace-Thackeray/dp/1853260193/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=) paperback from 1998. 
> 
> The Great Gatsby is a novel written by F. Scott Fitzgerald about a doomed love-affair between a shady self-made man and an upper society lady. The opening lines of this chapter are also from Gatsby.


	2. Can't Repeat the Past? Of Course You Can!

Joker wasted no time getting back to business.

He was gone by the time she woke up, of course. She expected that he would be. Mr. J was a busy man, fingers in lots of pies. He wasn’t much one for cuddling or aftercare; he trusted her to look after herself. She was good at that.

She didn’t go down to the club right away. She knew the Joker wouldn’t expect her to. He had run the business without her before; years before he had met her, months while she had been stuck in prison. It was why he didn’t get her up right away, of course. She ignored the not-altogether-unpleasant ache in her bones, made herself a sandwich for breakfast. There wasn’t much in the kitchen, but Joker always kept a few basics: peanut butter, jelly. Miraculously, there was bread too, and it hadn’t expired yet. She ate the sandwich lustily; after months of bread and water, a good ol’ American PBJ was beyond exotic, and utterly, deliciously decadent.

Afterward, she cleaned up; not that the place was exactly in good condition, but it would be a nice surprise for Mr. J the next time he hit the safe house. Med school had taught her the need for proper hygiene, and it was a lesson Harley did not cast aside after her rebirth. Even super villains had to be careful. Wasn’t like she could go to the hospital for a damn tetanus shot - not unless she wanted to be spendin’ a couple months in Arkham for it. _Or longer_ , Harleen insisted, but Harley swatted her thoughts away as usual.

She took a shower next. The water felt good on her back, washing down the gunk that had followed her all the way from that deep south hellhole they’d locked her away in. Even with the occasional burst of cold water — Joker never seemed to get safe houses with the best plumbing - it still felt heavenly. She stayed in there for a long time, letting the water soak through her sore muscles, through the scars, through her bones.

After that, she let herself sit on the mangy bear-skin rug, watching cartoons on an old black and white TV while her hair dried. There was something in the old drawings that she had never quite outgrown; a primeval love for a world of comical darkness. She couldn’t help liking _Tom and Jerry_ ; you never knew where you’d get inspiration, and she could almost see herself, the Joker and the Bat all wound up in these situations.

Next time the Bat crossed their path near an electric switch, she thought, they’d see if Bats could endure that lightning shock as well as cats did. She noticed with some sadness after the cartoons ended and some borin' preacher show came on that the safe house, much to her sadness, did not feature a library. Shame. She was hopin' to find out what had happened to old Gatsby. She hoped he got the girl in the end. But a long search of the safe house had turned up no sign of literature, not even a magazine or a library card or even a long-overdue bill. 

Only after this search ended, with the sun burst through the stubbornly ash-speckled windows, did Harley decide to finally go down to the clubhouse. She dressed in the same clothes she’d had from yesterday - her shorts, her t-shirt. She left the leather bra at the safe house. She hoped that Joker had kept her clothing. She’d have to go shoppin’ if he hadn’t. No way she was passing the winter in little more than booty shorts.

It was quiet when she got there. The club didn’t officially open ‘til ten, but in the daytime, Joker and the boys used _The Glasglow Smile_ for a wide variety of unofficial, criminal business. A few of the boys nodded at her as she came in; she smiled, nice and wide, and helped herself to a nice pineapple soda. Barkeeper wouldn’t miss it. One of the bodyguards moved closer to her; she saw his eyes glance at the large welt forming on her neck, then look away. She turned, not wanting to expose herself to him.

On her left, she saw the Joker up at one of the tables; Panda was with him, the familiar animal head placed upon his knee. They were going over a plan animatedly; Joker was shaking his head, his lips curled back in a sneer. Panda was talking calmly, but she could see from the rat-a-tat-tat of his fingers on the table that he, too, was a bit irritated. She watched them as she drank down the soda, bubbly-sweet.

Joker lost his patience at something Panda said; it was quiet enough in the club to hear him from across the room _._ _“Idiot!”_ he screamed, then flipped the table, the map between them fluttering toward her. She got up and grabbed it - some sort of underground pipe system. Sewers. She thought of Killer Croc, and hoped he was well. Once they’d gotten back to normal, she’d have to ask Joker if they could bust her friends out. She missed Croc, and Deadshot, and even Boomerang, despite his weird unicorn fetish. She would even take that stick-in-the-mud Flagg and his boring little wifey; she could _definitely_ be a bad girl, if someone as good at it as Harley taught her. She’d even take the little Asian samurai; she was strong, and, Harley suspected, she would be good at merc work if she could swallow her conscience. Harley had plenty of practice at that.

“What’s cookin?” she asked, as Joker came over to her. He was still glowering, though she caught his eyes flickering to her neck for a moment before he turned to the map.

“Harley,” he said, his voice sharp as a knife. He caressed her cheek, though his hands felt cold. “Harley, Harley, Harley. Pop quiz.”

She tried to look serious as the Joker touched her cheek - once, twice.

“Harley, tell me and our illustrious … _friend_ here: Why would we go through the front door of a bank, rather than through sewers?”  


“Oh that’s easy,” she said, flashing him a confident grin. “Alligators.” She thought of Croc, swimming through the sewers for a bomb, and knew she’d rather go through twenty ordinary guards with guns rather than one Croc with a killer smile.

“Alligators?” He laughed, bent backwards in a joyful cackle.

“Oh jeez. Looks like your galpal’s living up to her hair color, huh?” That was one of the thugs; he was a new recruit, one she didn’t recognize. No doubt someone acquired during her …incarceration. Instantly, the joke was over. The Joker froze, and the older of their lackeys made damn well sure they stepped back.

“What did you say?” he snarled.

“Aw, jeez.” The minion - she didn’t know his name, and mentally decided to call him Chad, because he looked like a Chad. “Boss, I’m just sayin, she — you know? Dumb broads.”

“Dumb broads, huh?” he said, his finger lightly tapping the kid’s cheek. She wondered how old Chad was - eighteen, nineteen? Perhaps 20, on a bad day. He was an idiot, but he was also young, and she wondered how he’d gone so far out of his way to fall into a place like this. Had he been born here, some poor bastard child of the ash-and-stone that was Gotham? Or was Chad from some sunnier homeland, like Florida, but just falling, falling, falling so far down that his family wouldn't even recognize him. 

“Dumb. Broads.” Joker smiled, but there was no joy in it. He gestured toward her. “Look at her.”

The kid looked toward her, a bored expression on his face. The Joker grabbed his face, pointed it toward her. “ _Look_ at her.”  


“Boss?” The kid said; at least, she _thought_ he was saying boss. With his mouth half-squished by Mr. J’s hand, it was hard to tell.

“That _dumb broad_ ,” Joker noted with a sneer, “is not only a goddamn sight prettier than you, she’s also a _lot_ smarter.”

“Boss?” The kid asked again; his eyes were wide now. He looked genuinely afraid, and she wondered, again, where he had come from. How had he gotten here? Had one of the other lackeys brought him in, a runaway off the streets? Was he a small-time thug looking for protection? Somebody’s dumb kid? She glanced to her sides, but no one had come to claim Chad.

“That _dumb broad_ is _mine_ ,” he snarled, “And I don’t think you belong here if you’re questioning my decisions.”

And at that point, she knew Chad was a goner. Worse, Chad knew it too - she could see the recognition flash in his eyes, and it was something utterly awful, and she had to stop it.

“Mr. J - “ she said, but then he smiled, and his arms turned, and Chad screamed, and she heard the horrible crack of his neck, and then Chad fell to the floor, his body making a terrible, loud _thwack_. It was nothing like the cartoons, she thought. _Nothing_. She felt sick to her stomach. He had defended her honor, but she had not wanted it. _Not like this._

“Any other comments on my lady?” He sniffed. No one met his eye except her, and even she wasn’t smiling. He raised his eyebrows at her in a disturbingly boyish grin, and she pouted, but he had already turned away from her, uninterested in seeing her reaction; instead, he pivoted back to the matter at hand.

He stepped over the body of Chad, placing his hands on his hips. “Now - why would you want to want to walk through the front door of a bank, instead of going up through the basement?”

No one said anything. After Chad, no one was going to. Joker shrugged, then continued his tirade. “A further, _deep_ question for you: Why would you want to make a big entrance?”

Again, the room was silent. Harley's eyes stayed on Chad. The Joker sighed. “We want, ladies and gentlemen, to attract _attention_.”

“What do you mean?” Harley asked; they’d never exactly been _under_ the radar — but they’d never been questing for attention, either. Every villain in Gotham had scraps with Batman or the po-po once in a while, but that was just a risk of the profession. No one _purposefully_ tangled with the Bat; that was like - like inviting a crocodile to live in your bathtub. She liked Croc, but not  _that much_.

He whirled toward her, grinning. “We’re going Bat-huntin, Harl.”

He was mad. He was completely, utterly _mad_ , and she wasn’t sure whether this was a risk worth taking. Joker had long been a trifle obsessed with the Bat, with the skirmishes, but he’d never sought him - or sought to be captured. She wondered if this, perhaps, was something to do with their conversation the night before; if perhaps he had reconsidered the vision she had been shown. What was the Joker in Gotham, without Batman, after all? There’d be nothing left to fight.

“C’mon, baby,” he muttered, grabbing her hand and pulling her along after him. “Let’s go plan us a heist.”

He grabbed her hand, Chad forgotten below them. She stepped on him once, and felt a brief moment of guilt - but one that was easily forgotten.

\- - -

Today, she was the getaway driver.

The Joker had ordered her to do it, but she did not mind. She was raring for some action. She’d gotten a new coat for her trouble, a small reward. It was black, with a fur hood that tingled against her skin. Puddin’ had even gotten her a new pair of jeans; a bit tight, but not bad. And, with his plan in mind, he was in a good mood.

He was humming, riding shotgun in the seat next to her, a shotgun on his lap. The three henchies they’d taken with them - two guys, one girl, aka Batsy, Chef Boyardee, and Lady D - in the back were nervous. She could see it in their stiff faces, the way they fidgeted, holding their masks under their arm. He playfully pointed the shotgun toward her, and her lip ticked upwards, even as her heart beat faster. She grabbed the steering wheel tight.

_What are you doing?_ Harleen demanded; she silenced her. Mr. J didn’t like it when the good doctor resurfaced, and she made sure to keep that voice locked up tight.

“Not even a flinch, huh?” Joker patted her hair. “Bad girl. We’re gonna have to get you a reward for that.”

“What kind of reward?” she asked, chomping her gum and blowing a bubble. She always liked a bit of chewing gum when she was nervous; she’d always had it in her mouth when she was getting evaluated at Arkham. The repetition of it - _chew, chew, pop! Chew, chew, pop!_ \- helped take away from the stress, made it harder for her to reveal the psychological tells that she would otherwise reveal. Never a good poker face without a good bit of Bubble-yum.

“Gonna get you rings on all those cute little fingers,” he said, drawling it out. His long, tapered fingers curled around hers. “Big diamond ones, make you so _delicious_ that I might just want to eat _you_ up.” He bit at the air; on a normal guy, it might have looked cute. On him, it looked nothing but malevolent.

She floored it a bit faster. She was still processing everything she _thought_ she had known about the man; there had been a time when that look had done nothing but excite her. Now, Harleen was wondering, louder and louder, why, exactly, it did. She tried to brush that aside, again - _this is our life now, deal with it_ \- and said little on the way over, focusing on the drive and living in the moment. She had been too long gone. Her consciousness had grown back.

She couldn’t help but be relieved when they pulled up to the bank. “Wait here,” the Joker barked; once he stepped out of the car, he was all business. Batsy, Lady D, and Chef Boyardee came out behind him. None of them bothered to say goodbye, which suited Harley fine. Work was work.

She didn’t quite know what to do with herself after they had gone; the car felt strangely huge in the overwhelming quiet. She turned on the radio - she knew better than to move too far from the car - and closed her eyes, listening to a love song whose words she did her best not to dwell on.

She didn’t have to wait long for the action to start; the song had barely reached its chorus before she heard sirens in the distance. Her hands tightened on the wheel.

She couldn’t hear the Joker firing from in the car - bank had thick walls, or a decent amount of soundproofing - but she imagined he had definitely pumped the clerks full of lead for calling the fuzz so fast. She leaned her head as far toward the window as she could, but the darkened glass bank door betrayed no secrets.

Finally, someone came out of the bank, and she sighed in relief, but this was short-lived.

Batsy was out first, but he wasn’t carrying anything. His face was set in a stubbly line, and his gun appeared to be missing. She had almost opened the door before she realized two very important facts, one after the other:

1) Batsy and the crew had gone into the west side of the building, but this Batsy was approaching from the south. There was no door on the south-side of the building.

2) No one had followed him. Joker liked to keep the henchies in his line of sight.

Which meant, this wasn’t Batsy.

She quickly locked the door.

“Open up,” the Bat said, and if she’d had any doubt of who it was, she didn’t now. She knew Mr. Gruff'n'Pouty when she heard him. 

 “Don’t think so,” she muttered; she leaned down, grabbing for the gun she knew Joker always kept hidden under the seats. A pistol wouldn’t have many shots, but it would be enough to at least deter the Bat. She felt nothing, and frowned. Had he taken it? He’d already brought one; he would never have needed the back-up, not with the amount of ammunition he carried.

“Where’s Joker?” he gruffed. She snapped her gum, but said nothing.

“Get out.”

She shook her head. The Bat’s mouth moved into an even thinner line. He tugged at the door, only to find it locked. The door to the bank opened, and she rejoiced - Joker had a gun, Joker could deal with the Bat; all she had to do was gun it once Joker made it to the car.

Joker took a quick glance at her and ran the other direction.

“Mr. J!” She cried. Was he playing a trick on her, a trick to fool the bat?  She did not know; he didn’t pay attention to her, cackling as he raced out into the streets. The Batman didn’t go after him, which was another anomaly - generally Batman ignored her if it meant catching him, and she liked it that way. A slick sludge curdled in her stomach; she had the distinct feeling that Joker was playing a joke, and she was the last one to know.

“Where’s the bomb, Harleen?” Batman groused, his hand tugging heavy on the door.

“What bomb?” she squeaked; she didn’t open the door but ran her hands underneath the chair, looking for any kind of latch or mechanism that wasn’t factory-installed.

“Harleen!” Batsy barked. “This isn’t funny!”  


“You don’t have to tell me that.” She grumbled; her hands clumsily roamed under the chairs, her hand catching on hard metal underneath the space between the passenger and driver’s seat.

“Let me in,” Batman said; she ignored him, focused solely on figuring out what the hard metal piece was. She didn’t dare to pull it out, so she bent down to get a better look. Batman pounded on the glass of the car as she peered into the darkness. Stupid Bats was blocking her light.

She grabbed her cell phone, turned on the flashlight to make sure she was seeing what she thought she was seeing.

She was.

It was an elegant bomb, a long silver piece of hardware, with no display counter on it. It had two jets of some sort of propellant attached; Harley could see the two canisters in front and could not rule out that there would be others.

“You son of a bitch,” she swore, glancing back in fury at Batman. The bomb was ticking, but she didn’t know how much time she had.   
  


“Don’t be an idiot, Harleen,” the Bat said, as she sat, frozen. Did he think she was getting ready to pull it? “Prison is better than death.”

“I ain’t in a hurry to go to either one,” she shot back. She couldn’t go out the front door, but she couldn’t reach the Joker’s side without crossing the bomb - and she had no idea if the thing was rigged with a pressure plate or not. She felt tears welling in her eyes, and tried not to let them fall: she could cry when she got out of here. Bad girls didn't cry, not in the line of duty. 

She didn’t even know what kind of bomb it was - if it was gas, then just running wouldn’t be enough. She needed to take action and _soon_. She couldn’t believe that Puddin’ would want her to die here - there _must_ be another way, a puzzle piece she wasn’t quite putting into place. He wouldn’t have rescued her just to let her die.

She closed her eyes a moment, ignoring the Bat hammering on her door, then she opened them, focused. She was a getaway driver. She had a bomb in the car. What was a getaway driver to do? She glanced at her surroundings: a bank on one side, skyscraper of a business empire on the other, Batman and her in the middle.

And the docks in front of her.

The docks. She grinned and floored it. She couldn’t swim, but if she moved forward, she could get the car into the water, and hopefully ditch the Bat in the confusion.

She glanced at the speedometer as it climbed. _30, 40, 50._ Batman was running after her, screaming; she cackled and ignored him, focusing instead on the growing sight of water.

She waited until she was about ten feet away and almost everything she could see was blue before daring to slow down; she flung open the door. She didn’t bother to look back before she rolled out. Bats was crazy, but he wasn’t _that_ crazy.

The ground was _hard._ It scraped at her skin as she whirled; she felt her jeans and her nice, new coat rip and tear in several places before she came to a stop. Her elbows hurt, her legs hurt. Everything hurt. But she still forced herself to get up, and forced herself to run until the Bat was well out of sight.

Harleen had been a wimp, but Harley was a _survivor._ She ran, and kept running, swallowing the pain.

She knew that when she stopped, she would have to think of what came next.

So instead, she kept running.

  



	3. You Can't Live Forever

She ran, in the end, to the safe house.

She didn’t have anywhere else to go. A part of her thought Mister J might be there, a part of her wanted him to be there, badly. She did not expect him to be, and was also not surprised when he failed to show up. Yet her wounds reminded her of his absence; they felt cruel, exploitative of her trust. He'd ground that to dust more than once, but never more than now. She felt alone; completely, utterly, terrifyingly alone. She cried. She had always been an ugly crier - her father had told her that, multiple times- but now she was alone, and free to let the tears flow. So she did. And when her face was red and blotchy, with her tear ducts so overused that they ached — then, and only then, did she decide to go through her options as she tended to her triage. She knew well she couldn’t stay in the safe house forever.

Option one was, simply, to go back. Surely Joker wouldn’t make a move on her; he would be impressed she survived, and would simply talk about how brave and capable she was. But this, Harley thought as she dabbed disinfectant on her wounds, was a rather risky strategy - Joker would not be so willing to see her if it had turned out not to be a joke, but a true assassination attempt. If he wanted her to be dead and she strolled into his space - she would be dead. She knew that.  
  
Option two was to try to go home. She knew she could probably make it back to her father’s house on foot, but she could already see the Colonel, his lips in a stern grimace as he took in her bedraggled form. She wouldn’t just be a disappointment -- she would be a black sheep, the shame of the whole family. She would be lucky if her father didn’t take her back to Arkham himself, just to prove a point. She shuddered, and it wasn’t entirely the fault of the disinfectant. She could not, would not go back to that. For all of Harley’s drawbacks, she was never as miserable as Harleen had been in that house.

Option three was to turn traitor, to run to Gordon and his little boys in blue. She could rat out a lot of the Joker’s accomplices, maybe help them even find a way to get to Mister J. But…she couldn’t see it working. Not long-term. Mister J had long arms, and he would reach her eventually. Gordon and his little boys might manage to keep her from getting killed, but once the Canary had sung all she needed to, she knew that they’d be gone, and she’d be alone, and no matter what love Mr. J might have once professed to her, she would be a traitor, and she would be dead. That, too, she thought, was a no go.

Option four was to simply disappear, to become one of the many ash-grey wraiths haunting the Gotham underground. There were lots of villains this town had chewed up, and the ones that were lucky enough not to make it into Arkham simply disappeared into the underbelly of the city. She had enough skills that she might be able to survive, if she was able to set up shop — but that, too, was a worrying prospect. She’d thrown her allegiance in with Joker — for better or worse, people would remember that, would associate her with it. And Mister J had a lot of enemies in the underground.

She shuddered as she eased herself into a shower, her mind all but made up. There was little choice but to go back to Mister J. If she was smart about it, she might be able to conceal a weapon or two in her arsenal. She might be able to fight her way out if Mister J were hostile. And even if she didn’t…dying in his arms still seemed a heck of a lot better than her father’s scorn or dying on the streets. 

It was hard for Harley to understand what had happened with the bomb. She thought about it again as the water rushed over her, the smooth metal canisters underneath her seat. She’d been sitting on a loaded bomb, and he had known it the entire time. She had been willing to die for him, but he had told her he wanted her to live for him — and if that had changed, she couldn’t imagine why. It felt hard to imagine why he’d bothered to break her out of a subterranean prison, only to gamble her life away

She had a feeling she would know once she saw Mister J at the club.

She dressed carefully after her shower; a warm sweater she’d gotten from her old clothes pile, a pair of high quality jeans. She was going for the mixture of protective but also low-key; she didn’t want to raise alarm that she trusted him anything less than utterly (for J never wanted anything less than her entire devotion), but she also didn’t want to go in as a lamb to the slaughter. She put a coat on top, a ratty one that had been left at the old safe-house. It was a bit big on her, but something told her that the original owner would not want it back, if they were still alive.

She walked to the club slowly; she didn’t feel the need to hurry, not with potential death waiting for her at the end of the line. She watched children at a playground for a good ten minutes, watching the young ones slide and run and laugh and play around her. She saw a boy smile as he climbed a ladder, a raking, daring grin on his face. He reminded her of the child in the Enchantress’s’ dream for her, and her heart ached.

Would he ever want such a child now? She doubted it.  _He never did_ , Harleen whispered;  _cramit_ , she thought back. The voice that followed her was  _not_ welcome, not right now. 

She entered the Glagow Smile without a smile on her face; the guards didn't look surprised to see her at the door, but she wasn’t sure whether that was a good sign, or just a sign that J hadn’t bothered telling anyone else his plans for her yet. They didn’t small talk either.

In fact, she got relatively little attention as she made her way from doorway to door. Few of the goons turned in her direction, and even Mr. J had his back to her. He looked good. Was wearin’ a nice white dress shirt, a vest with lots of sparkles, and a pair of dress pants that was more “refined” than “revolting.” Her heart beat faster at the sight of him, but she knew it wasn’t because of what he wore. It was because she was afraid. She bit her lip. She’d never been so aware of it before, how uncomfortable that he made her, but her skin itched at this moment and she knew she couldn’t leave. She couldn’t bear to smile, but she kept her face to a neutral expression, and considered it a victory.

“Ah-hah!” Joker said as she took her place beside him. He turned toward her, a manic grin on his face. “So, our Harlequin Heroine returns.”

“Yes,” she said, not sure how to play the situation. This was new ground; she’d risked her life with him before, but never because of him, and the difference was staggering. She was so, so afraid, and all she could see was the walls built around her. She was trapped, had trapped _herself_ within his web, and she’d never even known it…

He leered at her, a spider’s grin, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Did you like my surprise, honey?”

“Sure was a surprise, Mister J,” she said, stalling for time. This seemed to please him, as he smiled wider still, then leaned in close, pressin' a kiss to her forehead. She did her best not to shiver, but he seemed oblivious to her discomfort. He pulled back and looked deep into her eyes.

“What did the Bat say when he saw that hot little number I souped up that coupe with?” he hissed, his hand straying to her chin. “Did he beg? _Plead_?”

“He wanted me to open the door,” she said, doing her best to keep her voice level. “He just kept asking me to open the door.”

“Wonderful.” He cackled. “Wonderful.”

She wanted him to say something more; to give her some reason for why he’d nearly blown her up, but he seemed content not to offer any, and instead turned his head back to the business. Harley curled her arms around her chest, and leaned forward.

“What’s cookin’, Mister J?” Was he getting tired of her? Did he ever care for her? It was hard to tell. She felt sick, absolutely sick. She was sure she would be pale if only she hadn’t jumped into the acid when he had asked. But how could she not? She had loved him, once, and a part of her loved him still. 

She took his hand, trying to measure his interest. He squeezed her hand, but didn’t answer her question right away, instead continuing to dictate plans to Panda.

“Mister J?”

“The men are talkin’ Harley,”he said, smilin. “Just some business at the club. Don’t worry your pretty head about it.”

He fished around in his pocket, handin' her a wide wad of bills. “Why don’t you go down to the car lot, get us something pretty to replace that Coupe you took for a swim.”

She stared at the money. She’d always been aware that it had been blood money, but somehow she minded a bit more when it was _her_ blood.

“We’ll talk later,” he promised, as if he was anticipating her qualms.

Well, if J was going to give her “surprises”, she could give him some surprises, too. She went out and bought a Vespa. A bright pink one.

* * *

She debated changing, going back into the club in a golden outfit and showing off her skills as the queen. But she decided not to; for one, she didn’t feel like it, and for another, she didn’t like being on display. If Joker noticed her more demure outfit than normal, he again didn’t comment on it, but he put his arm around her, and she managed to grin, even if it was a mask.

* * *

“C’mon, baby,” he slurred, as they walked toward her new bike. “Let’s… go home.”

“Okay,” she said. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to be alone with Joker, but she knew it was better than trying to talk to him about how she didn’t appreciate the joke in the club. At home, he’d at least be isolated, and she’d seen for herself that he was nowhere near as scary a monster when he was isolated.

He had had a bit too much to drink, and leaned against her shoulder as she rode a Vespa through the now-empty streets of Gotham. Normally she’d have asked him which safe-house he wanted to hit, but tonight she didn’t, heading back to the one by the Bank, the one where she could see the bay and remember, no matter what he said or how he tried to charm her.

He slid to the couch first, almost horizontal. She stopped to take off her shoes, but he didn’t, only unbuttoning his pants.

“Mister J, I need to talk to you,” she said, slipping down on the coach near him.

“I like the way you call me Mister J,” he said, leering toward her. “Makes me feel like - like a King.” He looked at her like he wanted to tell her that he was one, but she demurred, avoiding his intense stare by leaning down to take off her socks.

“King of my own Castle,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “You know what my castle is, baby?”

“I hope it’s more than this, Mister J,” she muttered. She kicked off the socks and put them aside.

“Mister J,” he said, grinning over at her, ”is King of all Gotham.”

She nodded, a bit uncomfortable. She tried to figure out how hard to press him on what was bothering her _. A good couple can communicate,_ her psychology textbooks had said. _Being afraid to bring up issues was a sign of an unhealthy relationship._

What was nearly dying for someone, she wondered?  

She knew, in truth. If she had been her own client, she would have advised herself to run. Far.

But that was no longer an option, was it? 

“Tell me, King,” she said, straddling him. His eyes were dark, but pleased. A hand caressed her hip, but she didn’t lean into the touch the way she would have yesterday. “Why’d you plant the bomb on the car?”

He smiled, far too wide. “The better to see the whites of your eyes, m’dear.”

Great. Too many drinks and the Joker was talkin like the _damn_ Riddler.

“Bang bang,” he said, cackling. Harley didn’t find the joke funny, and he must have seen it, because he turned back toward her, his eyes heavy and dark.

“Come on, Harls,” he hissed. “Lighten up. I told you to _live_ for me, yeah?”

“You could have killed me, Mister J!” She squeaked.

“You’ve got more than capable goods to handle an itsy-bitsy bomb.” He sneered. “Unless you think you’re just a dumb broad, like that two-bit kid thought. Was I hasty when I killed him, baby?”

He may have been drunk, but she had little doubt he was dangerous. He leaned in close to her, his teeth bared in a grimace. “You know how much I hate making mistakes.”

She sneered back, knowing cowardice would only make her a larger target. “Hardly. I just don’t like surprises. If I’d have known it was there, Mister J, I could have made it an even bigger pop. Think of the surprise ol’ Batsy’d have on his face then.”

He laughed and dove the precious last few centimeters between them, biting down on her lower lip. She groaned not in pleasure but in pain, but he took no notice as he pressed feverish kisses that tasted of salt to her mouth. Harley complied, but, for the first time, she was much more aware of her desire to do so stemming far more from survival than anything romantic.

But Harley — who had lived two lives — was very good at doing what it took to survive. 


	4. Driving On Toward Death in the Cooling Twilight

She woke up to the smell of burning.She ripped off the thin cover she'd fallen asleep on, instantly awake. Had he tried to burn the safe house down, with her still inside? It seemed like his idea of a joke. And she was getting  _very_ tired of his jokes.

"Baby?" she asked; there was a thin haze of smoke in the crummy living room, and the sound of metal hitting metal. She squinted through the smoke, eyes watering, as she walked toward the kitchen. She shrugged on the sweater and pants she'd worn the night before, but nothing else.

She reached the kitchen before she saw him, a comically grubby apron draped over his boxers. His pale shoulders twitched toward her, and he gave her a dazzling, murderous smile.

"Good morning, star-shine," he said.

"Are...Are you making breakfast?" She blinked, her eyes watering from perhaps more than the haze of burned sausage and bacon. Her puddin' liked his meat and, unfortunately, he liked his meat charred.

"What do you think?" he whispered, taking two steps forward and putting his hands on her face. He kissed her, his lips heavy and insistent, and she bowed to it, still wondering what, exactly, had happened.  _Mania and manipulation_ , Harleen supplied through her whisper-thin mental link;  _it'll pass._  

This time she did not tell her other self to shut up,  but rather closed her eyes, leaning into the embrace. She thought of the Enchantress and smiled as she slowly rocked him into a small dance. He was debonair and quick on his feet, as he always was. He shot her a dazzling grin before returning to the squealin' piggies on the stove.

"What's the special occasion, Mister J?" J never cooked; before she'd come around, she was certain he just ate out of the tin cans that still sometimes littered the various safe-houses they'd squatted in. She was surprised by his attitude; he'd been cold yesterday, made her feel like the bomb was  _her_ fault, that it was just a  _joke_ , and even if Harley knew enough to know that was bull-shit, he was still charming enough to almost make her believe it. And that he now seemed to be makin' a peace offering.

But Mr. J was always hard to predict.

"Clever girl," he said, but she wasn't entirely certain it was praise. He was still grinning though, so she relaxed. Mostly. "I was thinking, Harley, if I'm a king, what does that make you?"

He gave her a piercing glare, and she swallowed. This was more dangerous ground; J couldn't stand her belonging to anyone else, but J didn't like to think he was tied down either. What answer he wanted would depend on which he valued more at that moment

"Well? Thinking a bit too hard, ain't ya?" He cackled. "Not good for blonds, you know."

And now she'd taken too long. Harleen would have called - did call - Mister J a typical narcissist. A _typical_ narcissist; she grinned, and then, she knew how to tell him what he wanted to hear.

"Whatever position you want me to be, King J." She batted her eyelashes coquettishly; he cackled and threw his head back.

"For a blond, you're pretty clever, Harley." He whirled around, dropping a plate of charred bacon, sausage, and over-cooked eggs onto her side of the crappy little table. "We should take advantage of that."

"What do you mean?" she said, her mouth still a bit full of egg. She wasn't big on meat, but even overcooked eggs were alright, and a definite improvement on what passed for prison food. Although - she did miss the espresso machine. Maybe if she groveled enough, Mister J would buy one for her. 

"I'll show you after breakfast. Got a little job for us," Mister J said, and the weight of his words made her quite sure that that was nothing less than a promise.

* * *

Harley supposed she wasn't, in the end, all that surprised that Mister J wanted them to rob same the bank that he'd just robbed no less than a week ago. It made sense, as much as anything J did. He liked to kick dogs when they were down, and he liked it when people were afraid. This was a combination of both, a lure that, in hindsight, the psychologist buried within her might have been able to pinpoint well. What she _hadn't_ pinpointed well was that his plan would involve stealing an armored car.

As luck would suspiciously have it, the Joker remembered the route the armored car would take.

And that was what brought them here.

It was suspiciously easy for a complicated heist; the Joker had already found them a couple of uniforms from the GUARDIAN company; she fiddled with the nameplate on her uniform, which read FLORENCE. She wondered about Florence. Had she sold a spare uniform to one of J's guys for a bit of money, or a spot of blow? Had she awoken to go to work with her uniform suddenly, shockingly gone? Or had she gone to a worse end, in the wrong place at the wrong time wearing the right thing? Did she like to be called Flo, or Florie? She sniffed. She hoped Flo hadn't gone to work today. Would be embarrassin' if they'd get caught wearin' the same thing. 

"Come on," the Joker muttered under his breath. His voice carried, despite the sound of the wind in her ears and the hum of the Vespa beneath her feet. "Come to the King."

He sped up and Harley tensed, getting ready to take on the truck. It was big, heavy, but there was a stupidly large handle on the side.

"You ready to live for the _King_ baby?" He shouted; she grinned. She was on the hunt now; power surged through her. Harleen would never have lived like this, with the wind in her hair. _If her father could see her now_ … She thought. Even with their problems, she enjoyed this; the anticipation was her favorite part of the hunt. 

"Always!" She shouted.

"Do it." It was a command, his voice cold and emotionless. She leapt as he pulled up on the side, her hands grasping the handle to the door. The noise of her jump made a noise and startled the two men in the car, both sets of ash-grey eyes turning toward her.

"Hiya." She waved as she held tight onto the doorway, the wind whipping her pigtails out behind her. She saw out of the corner of her eye that the Joker had fallen behind, cutting off the car behind the truck by swerving into their lane.

She heard the irritated honking of the person who the Joker had cut off and cackled. They'd dodged a bullet, they just didn't know it yet.

The armored car's driver sped up, knowing something was wrong. She gripped harder on the handle even though her fingers ached, Flo's gloves tightening underneath her as she leaned in. They'd try to shake her, but this wasn't Harley's first rodeo, and all she'd have to was hang on until Joker got to the top.

She heard him smacking around back there, the angry honking as the pink vespa whirled off into traffic.

"What do you want?" the passenger said. His voice wasn't audible between the thick plating and the roar of traffic in her ears, but she could read lips well enough. Besides, the panicked expression on his face said what he was thinking more than his words could.

"Let me in," she said, "and I'll tell ya."

The driver said something filthy, she was sure; his face was bright red, his mouth a variety of fun and entertaining four-letter words.  
  
The Joker was taking a while in the back, and her hands began to ache. She frowned, her stomach twisting into knots as she feared that perhaps he had left her; abandoned her to this crazy scheme when he simply took the front door to the bank. She was just about to start trying to make her way toward the back of the truck when she heard it.

 _Stomp_. She grinned, triumphant, as the Joker crawled across the top of the car. _Stomp. Stomp. Stomp_.

"What the FUCK?!" the passenger said, glancing toward her.

"You're gonna get it," she sing-songed. He swore at her, but that wasn't enough to stop the Joker's ascent.

She could see him now; he leaned over the edge of the windshield, a heavy assault rifle in his hand. It was one of the ones that he'd made a few ...modifications... to, and she already knew without J telling her that whatever he'd put in there, it would punch through that allegedly bulletproof windshield like a hot knife through butter.

The Joker didn't bother to give them any chance to let him in peacefully; he shot once. It did not blow apart the windshield but made only the smallest little spider-webs; barely a structural break. Not even enough to let the cold in. The angry man was less lucky. He slumped forward; it was a good shot. He hadn't even screamed, and there was no little angry red blood trail.

Still, Harleen didn't like it, and Harley's stomach curdled. With the dead man no longer at the wheel - well, actually, perhaps with th dead man now _onto_ the wheel - they were slowing down, and soon she'd have to get in the car or get bounced off. 

The problem was, she wasn't exactly sure which way J would play it. 

"Let the lady in," Mister J yelled toward the other guy. "Or you'll wind up like your friend."

The man didn't hesitate.She caught a glimpse of his tag as he reached toward her door. MARCO. Poor Marco, she thought.

"I want you to know," she said quietly, as she reached out and grabbed Marco's arm. "That I really am sorry about this. My advice? Don't fight it."  
Marco didn't have time to scream before she threw him off the armored car. He was a thin man, and she was a strong woman; she didn't have much trouble sending him out onto the shoulder. She caught a glimpse of him in the rear view mirror as she took her seat in the passenger's side. He rolled across the side of the road but leaned upward, sitting in a dazed expression after a few moments.

She smiled. She was glad Marco had survived.

The Joker didn't take it so easy on the poor driver. She got a quick flicker of his nametag in the light as well - MANNY. Marco and Manny, wasn't that fucking cute. M&M. She bet they even bought the damn candies on some of their runs. But that would be all in the past now, and that made Harley a bit sadder than it ought to. Mr. J didn’t even seem bothered by his murder of Manny; maybe he didn’t think about his past, but Harley did, and it hurt her more to know that Manny had been a person who had had friends, in-jokes, perhaps even candy.

Mister J  hummed. She felt ill at ease, and tried to snap out of it. Harleen whispered that she should listen to her instincts, but Harley didn’t listen to her. Harleen hadn’t been right about much in their life.

“You ready to roll, baby?” Joker asked, giving her a rather lecherous look as he fiddled with the truck’s stick-shift. There was a heavy thud above her, and Harley didn’t answer. She looked up and listened to the sound of someone - she had a pretty good idea who - making their way across the roof.

“Looks like we’ve got a visitor, Mister J.” She grabbed hold of the rifle, preparing to fire. She didn’t feel comfortable going without a firearm, and Joker nearly always had a back-up.

“We do indeed,” he said, and she expected him to laugh, but he looked back at her, sober. “Remember Harley; you can't get caught up in the big ol’ bat.” He paused a beat, reaching into his jacket. She wasn’t surprised to see a pistol emerge, this one even more heavily modified.

“I won’t be able to come after you if he takes you,” the Joker said, and this was dry; clinical. He didn’t even sound as if he’d miss her. She swallowed, uncomfortable. “So don’t get caught.”

“You watch yourself, Mister J,” she said, though her voice betrayed her, shaking a bit. He grinned at her, no doubt unfazed by the threat. He was just like her father in that way; both could smell her fear, and both seemed to be drawn to it. She hated it.

There was another heavy thump on the roof, this one over her head. She thought about firing but realized quickly that she couldn’t guarantee the bullet wouldn’t ricochet. She oynly knew for sure that it had been equipped to go through glass. She aimed it at the windshield and waited instead.

 _Thump. Thump_.

She saw the edge of him then, the swirling cloak just barely gracing the edge of the car. He peered down at them, visibly pissed as hell, and Harley fired a shot. He ducked. Barely. She grinned and reloaded.

“Oh, _Batsy_ ,” Joker said, as Batman placed a small, bat-shaped device on the car’s windshield, on the opposite side of the Joker's spider-cracked shot. It blinked and beeped, and Harley put a hand over her eyes, suspecting what it was. She had to wonder where, exactly, he was getting all the bat-shaped gadgets. The man did commit to a theme, she’d give him that. Joker wagged his finger, but otherwise made no move. “You keep ruining date night. My girl might think you want a three-way.”

She giggled and winked, knowing it would annoy them both.

“Stop the car,” the Bat grunted.

“Oh, you could at least ask _nicely_ ,” Joker hissed, and accelerated, speeding up as he switched to another lane. She heard the Bat stumble on the roof, but he didn’t fall off. Much to Joker’s sadness.

She couldn’t see him do it, but he must have pressed a button, as the windshield promptly exploded into a million pieces. Harley felt it cut her face, a couple bits of blue and pink hair. “I just dyed that,” she swore. She only had a couple cuts, nothing serious. She glanced over to J, but J hadn’t taken his eyes off the road. He was bleeding, just a bit, from a cut above his eye.

The Bat landed on the top of the hood and then, in a sudden burst of speed, dove between them. Harley saw nothing but black fabric for a moment, and fired blindly at it. The Bat gripped her gun after her second shot, his face a stern warning not to fire again.

“Don’t,” he said, simply. He tried to reach the door and she leaned back toward it. But Joker all but eliminated the space she’d worn between them in seconds, pushing the Bat towards her. She grunted, and something on the Bat’s face looked at her like she was — pitiable. She shivered.

“Sorry,” the Bat muttered, then opened the door. She toppled backwards, her face halfway out the door, and screamed.

“Puddin’! Help me!”

Her hands dove for purchase, anything she could cling to to keep from rolling out into traffic. A headfirst fall at this speed? Even Mister J had to know that would be fatal. Traffic caught on to what had happened; a few people honked, one shouted. A frat boy who reminded her of Chad yelled something incomprehensible over the blood pounding in her ears, making a lewd hand gesture as he passed her. Gravity pushed her further down, and she screamed again. “Puddin! Please!”

But he did not come to her aid. As he had promised.

She could hear a scuffle above her, heard Joker’s door open; who had done it, it was hard to say. The car swerved, curving hard to the left. They were slowing down. Why were they slowing down?

“Stop!” she heard Batman say, then a choked, wet sound that could have been either of the two men struggling above her. The armored car cut across the other three lanes on the highway. They were slowing. Harley took advantage of it, swinging back up. Joker’s gun was gone; Batman held both his slender wrists in his hands. Joker’s teeth were bared. He was not smiling.

The Bat seemed wholly consumed with the Joker. She could not see his face, but he was off-balance, leaning forward with a sort of terrible urgency.

People around them were honking, screaming. No one was driving. It was hard to think

“Harley,” the Joker whispered, his tone choked up. He was in trouble; he knew it, she knew it. “Do it, Harley.”

The gun was on her side. It would be easy to do it, to take out the Bat; one shot. Except…

They were in an armored car. It could ricochet, easy. And then she’d be dead, or he’d be dead, or all of ‘em would be dead, three little dead mice, sitting in the most-armored fox-hole in the universe.

“Don’t,” the Bat said, not bothering to look back at her. “He isn’t worth it, and you know it.” Her hand shook, finger on the trigger. She did not shoot. 

"Do it, you stupid bitch!" The Joker snarled, his patience gone. She looked up, startled;  _you stupid bitch,_ her father's voice echoed in her head, joined now in a chorus with the Joker's.  _Stupid stupid bitch. Can't do anything right._ Harley wanted to scream, wanted to shoot them both.  _Don't do it_ , Harleen begged,  _don't let him win._

Which him wasn't apparent, but the voices in her head were not anything near in agreement. "I'm not a stupid bitch," she said, the rifle shaking in her hands. "If I shoot, we could all die."  
  
"She's right." The bat said; they'd never agreed on anything before, and it felt funny to have Mr. Vigilante Justice in her corner now. 

" _I'm willing to take my chances_ ," Joker growled, and she understood the meaning in that well enough. One ricocheting bullet couldn't kill all three of them - and there was a two/thirds chance it wouldn't be stopping in his brain matter. He looked at her expectantly, as if he was willing her to fire it in a way that prevented hitting him. Even if she could, she knew now that she wouldn't.

She had been willing to live for him. But she wasn't ready to die for him.  

Joker opened the door, clearly expecting her to shoot the Bat and push the body out. Harley swallowed. Harley was a survivor. The path ahead was clear.

“Sorry Puddin’,” she said, and, with a heavy heart, pushed them both forward.

The Joker caught on to what she was doing first, screaming some choice curses as she rammed into the Bat. Batman, already off-balance, slid further so as she shoved into him, toppling into the Joker’s thinner frame, The Joker’s hands hit the doorway, but the heaviness of the Bat slamming on top of him proved too much for him to keep his grip, both jester and knight were flung out into the street.

Shakily, she scrambled over to the driver’s side. In her rear-view mirror, she could see the Joker and Batman, Batman holding Puddin’s head down as he was radioing - into a bat-shaped radio, of course, presumably for back-up. She felt a strange mix of emotions; guilty, but also elated. Sad, but also hopeful. Terrified and -- well, terrified covered it pretty well, actually. 

She froze, her heart skipping a beat as she squirmed in the driver’s seat. The cab was unbearably silent; she quickly flipped on the radio as she tried to find the signal for what to do. Mister J wasn't’ there to tell her anymore.

She turned the car off the road, automatically; if Batman got Gordon put an APB on it, she’d be dead. She knew that much. She hid it in one of those free-to-park parking lots next to a mall; the sort of place where cars disappeared all the time. Surely it would just be funny if a car reappeared there instead.

She was on foot now. She walked into the mall, staring at the different stores as the sound of people milling around and advertisement jingles floating overhead mingled around her. She smiled at a small child, who promptly broke into tears.

She gave the kid a one-finger salute as she entered a store. It was easy enough, even in her tight outfit, to grab a sweater and some different pants; black and long. She went into the dressing room before simply pulling the tags off, putting the new clothes on, and leaving her old ones in the room. She was sad to leave the last outfit she’d seen Puddin’ in behind but - well, there was no way she could take it.

Not much time to be sentimental if she was dead.

Hair and outfit changed and car ditched, Harley lost herself in the crowd before she could think too much about what she had just done. 


	5. Life, Beginning Over Again

She wandered through the streets, unsure of exactly where she was going.

It felt odd, not answering to anyone. She had spent so long taking orders from Mister J; before that, she had taken orders from her supervisor, Dr. Donahue; before that, it was her faculty adviser, Dr. Makara, and before that — her father.

She frowned.

Harley walked a bit faster, debating where to go. She left the mall, hands in her pockets. She had to lay low; that much was obvious. Just because the Bat had the Joker didn’t mean that she was out of danger; if anything, she had gone from bake to _broil_.

She tried to think of who she could go to but the possibilities were still unappealing. Certainly not her father. She’d be dead before she ever set foot in the old man’s door again, if she was lucky. She could not take his disappointed stare; could not play nice and smile at the man who had slapped her so often as a child that she’d understood Stockholm syndrome very well by the time that she graduated.

She had swornshe would not go back to him when she graduated, she would not break that promise to Harleen. She wished she had a father to turn to, though; not her own, but a kind man, an understanding one.

She grinned as she thought of an idea and bounced over to Gotham’s most-secured building.

\- - -

“Hi!” she said, cheerily. Two guards eyed her warily. She smiled harder, even as she felt rotten. “I’m here to see Floyd.”

“Floyd?” One of Waller’s big muscle-men smirked. “You sure you know what you’re getting yourself into? He don’t get many visitors.”

“She’s sure.” She waved energetically despite her growing panic as Floyd stuck his head out of the door.

“Your visiting — “

“I know, I know.” He rolled his eyes. “Look, like you said, I don't get many visitors. Let 'er in.”

One of the guards shook his head but motioned for her to come through.

She made it three steps into Floyd’s small apartment before she burst into tears.

“Oh, crazy girl, what have you done now?” he said, reaching over to his sidetable and grabbing her a few tissues. Only Floyd, she thought, would have tissues; Joker certainly wouldn’t bother with any kind of thing like that. Probably for his little girl.

“How did you know?” She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. Floyd must be a good dad, she thought. This, somehow, only made her sadder. Joker didn't _want_ her to have a baby.

“Well, let’s see. You’re here — strike one. Outfit that screams ‘I’m on the down low’ while wearing clown make-up — strike two. Sobbing with melting clown make-up? Batter out.” He walked deeper into the apartment, pulled out a chair in what must have been the kitchen. “Sit down.”

She did, feeling miserable. The feeling of being terrified by what she had done was not so overpowering with him in the room, but the guilt still clung to her lungs as she sat. He hadn't been a good guy, Mister J, she'd known that, known it always – but he was hers, and now he was gone. Confusingly, so, too, was a confusing feeling of freedom—exhilarating and terrifying. Joker was gone. _Gone_ gone—back to Arkham, probably, or jail, or the chair – back out of her reach, at any rate.

How was she going to tell the gang? Would they turn on her for turning on him? She’d had no choice, but —

She sobbed.

Floyd wordlessly put the tissues in front of her. She took several, blowing her nose ungracefully. She smiled in gratefulness, though she was aware that the smile might look a bit more malevolent in her smudged make-up.

She took a deep breath, then began. “I lost my puddin’.”

“Again?” Floyd made a whistling noise. “That boy seems to have quite a way of getting lost, girl. How’d you get out of the pokey?”

“He sprung me,” she admitted, dotting at her eyes. “And things were fine, for a bit. But -” She frowned. “Then we had this mission a week ago; Joker wanted to rob a bank — “

“Gotham’s 1st; I heard.” She looked up and Floyd raised an eyebrow, tilting his neck toward the TV. “They let me have basic cable. They’re not savages, Harley.”

“Y-Yeah.” She sniffed. “Anyway, we had this bank job, and I was pullin’ get-away driver, but he didn’t come, and then the Bat was there yellin’ at me to open the door because there was a bomb, and an-- “ She noticed how his eyes raised, but Floyd didn’t interrupt her story, and so she barreled on. “ Mister J, he — he put it there, and I barely escaped.”

She tried to summon a bit of delight from the sad story, raising her eyebrows and telling Floyd, “Gave the Bat quite a scare though.”

He didn’t smile, but nodded. “What happened then?” He asked.

“Well, I thought about leavin’ Mister J for good after what he did,” she said, and to her relief Floyd did not look affronted, as if this disloyalty was the worst. There was, despite the phrase, honor among villains, after all. “But — I knew I wasn’t gonna make it in the underground; he’d hunt me there. So I tried to go back, tried to make everything normal but — “

“Everything wasn’t normal,” Floyd finished for her. She looked up in surprise only to find him nodding. “That’s the problem when you’ve been under so long — warps your view of what normal is.”

“I chose to go with Mister J,” she said sharply. “He wasn’t beatin’ me...much. Bat was there and he had Mister J in a bind. Mister J asked me to shoot but — “ Her shoulders sagged as the end of the story came rushing out of her. “I couldn’t. It was so small a space that even if I’d gotten the Bat, the bullet probably would havericocheted. And…the Joker lost his temper, and _said_ some things, and, well… I pushed 'em both out. And now... I don’t know what to do.”

“Bullets don’t work on his ass,” Floyd said, sourly. “Trust me, crazy girl, I know. That Bat is bulletproof—or close enough to it that it doesn’t matter.”

Floyd stood up suddenly and her muscles tensed; when had that become her first reaction? She wasn't sure. He started moving in the small kitchen, filling an electric kettle with water. She’d expected him to comfort her, to offer her some advice.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asked. “I didn't come here to watch you fuck around in the kitchen.”

“Getting you some tea.” He snorted. “You look like shit. Go wash up.” He pointed past the kitchen to a small door on the right. “You ain’t gonna accomplish shit if you go out looking like a melted crayon.”

She nodded, walking down the short hallway. She did not turn back to watch Floyd pour out the tea, and was instead comforted by the clinking of the cups and saucers.

She looked in the mirror and immediately saw why Floyd had wanted her to clean up. Despite the cleaner clothes, she was a hot mess, her makeup turned into little more than grime. The hasty dye job in the bathroom had not exactly been up to pass, either; she frowned as she saw the streaks of black and red that striped her scalp.

She walked to the shower, unleashing a stream of hot water that she quickly dipped herself into. She sighed as the water hit her, the scalding heat an odd form of penance. She scrubbed off some of the dirt from the heist, the water pressure crappy but Harley didn’t care. Much of her red and black excess fell into the water, but she did not mind, staying in the shower until it began to feel cold.

She dried herself off with Floyd’s scratchy towels; she had only swung one around her lap when the door opened. A young girl—Twelve? Thirteen?—stared at her, eyes wide. She was Floyd’s for sure; the same dark brown, inquisitive eyes were in this child’s face, along with pursed, easily contrary lips.

“Hello,” Harley said, and the girl slipped out the door, her heavy legs beating against the floor in a loud thump. She swallowed, then dressed quickly; she had once liked surprises, but her enjoyment of them had gone out the window when Mister J had crawled into it. She walked out to see Floyd and the girl talking in quiet tones; she couldn’t hear much of it until she got to the doorway, but heard Floyd say she was “a friend” and winced only slightly when the child asked if she was a friend from his assassin days.

“That’s not important,” Floyd said. His way of saying buzz off was an awful lot nicer than her father’s had been. She still remembered the feel of a crack 'round her ears whenever she asked too many questions.

“Hi,” she said, awkwardly, her fingers thumbing the edge of her sweater.

‘Is she staying long?” The girl’s face was contorted in an expression of dislike so pure that it took Harley by surprise, even if she didn’t generally care about how people looked at her. But right now, it was yet another stab to the heart, another person writing her off. _Betrayer_ , the girl’s eyes said — and it was true.

“Not the way to treat guests,” Floyd said, rolling his eyes. “Sorry. She’s been a bit surly since she started staying here full time.”

“I’m not staying long,” she promised, though the girl’s eyes did not waver. “Thought she was living with her mom?”

“She was—til mom decided she liked the smack better than providing food.” Floyd turned away, shrugging; Harley knew well enough that this was a psychological defense, a way to act like he didn’t care about that — even though his posture, not quite relaxed, clearly said he did. “Now I figure staying in a safe prison with 3 squares a day is a lot better than staying in a prison with no food and no support.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it; the Joker had sold a lot of drugs in this city, and she’d never quite thought about all the people who’d been left behind by it, like Floyd’s daughter. It was one thing to think, as Joker did, that those who indulged were only hurting themselves — another to be confronted with the fact that that wasn’t true at all.

“Go on and finish your homework,” Floyd said, gently placing his hand on his daughter’s back. “I’ll be back to check it once our friend here leaves, alright?”

“…Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. Harley didn’t have the energy left to glare at her as she left, and Floyd leaned down on the table.

“So,” he said, quietly. “What’s the choice?”

“What do you mean?”

“Women like you — you got two choices, in what you’re gonna do. You either gonna get out for good, or you’re gonna keep going back to the guy. I think that’s your choice here—you either owe him your loyalty, or you don’t.”

She was silent for a long while. She looked down into a cup of tea, piping hot. She put her hands around the cup. It felt nice; warm. Warm water was a bit of a luxury; sometimes Joker’s places didn’t exactly have electricity. And even if they did, it was hard to imagine him makin’ her a cup just cuz. She had only ever gotten one breakfast out of him, and it wasn’t exactly standard fare.

“If it’s taking you this long to decide, seems like that’s a sign to me.” Floyd said, taking a long sip of his cup.

“It’s not that simple.” She jabbed at the cup, startled as the liquid moved. “Me and Mister J, we got history. He made me. We ran Gotham. He got me out of jail.”

“He put you there, too,” Floyd said quietly. She opened her mouth to correct him, but couldn’t. The Joker had put her in prison the first time when he let the Bat take her, and nearly again with the bomb.

“It’s just not that simple,” she repeated, even quieter.

“Simple or not, you gotta decide, and quick.” He glanced at her, then turned on the TV. She winced — it was the Joker, of course it was; she winced as she saw him, smiling in ill-fitting orange rags. The anchor-lady droned on about him, talking about his record. “It ain't gonna be easy for you to go crawlin' back. Guys like that don't take the wound to their pride well.”

“Turn that off,” she grumbled. He changed the channel, and there the Joker was again, staring with a manic grin as an anchorman rapidly talked into the camera in Spanish; she caught _peligroso_ before he turned the channel again, then again, each new channel showing different views of his manic, evil grin.

_Yer gonna pay_ , that smile said, and she knew it was focused toward her.

“You got about an hour or two to get out before his allies regroup and start investigating what happened and whether they’re gonna do anything about it,” Floyd said, rather quietly. “You gonna run and hide or — ”

“Never. Bad guy remember? Running and hiding is not my style,” she said though she wasn’t certain how true it was. She had fought hard at times but at times she had given in—a brief flash of the white-hot electricity coursing through her veins came back to her, so hard she gasped. Floyd looked over at her quietly.

“You’re free to stay here if you need a place to lay low.” He murmured. “We got a couch, and baby girl will come around.”

“It ain’t that simple,” she said again, focusing on the Joker on the television. He looked consumed yet, simultaneously, raw. He did not look as if he had any sort of thought in his head beyond revenge — and she was sad of this, sad that he had lost his revenge and that she had betrayed him so, sad that she had left him out to dry yet simultaneously sad that he had, in the end, deserved it.

She grabbed the remote off the table. Floyd looked surprised but said nothing, his only reaction an arched brow. She flipped through the camera, looking at millions of different images of him from different angles, some running the same stock photos while other, better-funded networks sent live video of his arraignment (which had been pushed through the works quickly, she knew, because the Joker had given their boys in blue such a black eye lately). She watched as a dozen channels flipped by in one oddly cohesive narrative:

… _.The Joker…captured…Gotham…safer…unrepentant…gang still at large… one survivor in recent hijacking…truck recovered… Joker… Quinn at large… Joker… Clinical psychologist at Arkham…armored escort… Gotham…safer…Batman… Gotham…Joker…suffer… Crew unknown… No word on how this will shake up Gotham’s underbelly… den of snakes… Gotham corruption…_

She turned the TV off with a sharp clatter.

“Walls are closing in.” She said,softly. “I don’t know what to do. I can't go back to him, but...”

She had always had someone to direct her—Flagg, Waller, Joker, father—and now that she did not she felt adrift, unable to figure out where she needed to cling in the storm.

“Let’s start with the obvious choice first.” Floyd raised his eyebrows as he stared down at her. “You gonna run? There’s people in town who’ll change everything about you for a fee- maybe even enough to let you get out of this place, start over somewhere; Cincinnati, Cleveland, something like that.”

“No.” She did not need long to think about it. She had been born in Gotham, raised in Gotham, molded by its ash-grey skies and shadowy towers. She could no more move to Pennsylvania or Ohio or, god forbid, Florida, than she could have lived a second longer under her father’s roof. She had felt lost in that sweltering southern prison where they’d held her after the Squad’s adventure; she was in no hurry to be anywhere other than the grime-encrusted streets of her home.

“Okay.” Floyd seemed pleased by this; a small smile lit up in his face and she marveled at how nonviolent it was. He was a murderer, a mass murderer, an assassin, and yet she felt far less threatened by him than she had by her own lover, despite the fact that Floyd had no doubt murdered almost as many as the Joker. But Floyd had murdered for money, not for fun.

“So that’s one option out,” Floyd continued, perhaps realizing that they’d both been silent far too long. “That means you need to fight, because you know there’s gonna be a lot of people trying to move in on Joker’s part of town. _Glasgow Smile_ ate up a good chunk of that pie, and now you gonna have people clamoring to get a larger slice—both inside and out.”

“The gang,” she said, looking up suddenly. She shouldn’t have come here—Floyd was right. If the news was broadcasting it, everyone knew, and the gang at the _Glasgow Smile_ would be adrift, unmoored. Anyone could come in and launch an attack and they’d suffer from it — and that was a problem only if the group hadn’t hacked _itself_ to pieces while she was gone. They would have long known something was wrong, would have figured out almost all of the full story by the time the news-ladies and gents started bayin’ about capturing Gotham’s most wanted. Joker had a lot of turn-over but some of the cohorts had been lackeys forever—Panda, Bats—and it was likely they’d step up to try to lead — even if it was to lead a civil war.

She stood up, and Floyd did as well, perhaps knowing that their time was up. “I gotta go. Thanks.”

“Anytime, crazy girl.” He walked her toward the door; Harley got the closest view of his little girl’s face poking out from behind a loft, then the sudden _flump_ of a girl hitting a bedspread. “Give ‘em hell.”

She nodded, shakily smiled. If she had felt better she would have given him a better goodbye, but she did not have time to dwell on it. Instead, she gave a half-hearted salute to Waller’s hired goons, breaking into a run as soon as was beyond their vision.

She had a job to do. She’d keep the gang calm, take control. And then, and only then, she’d allow herself to think about what the hell they were going to do when the truth came out.

  


  



	6. Beating On, Boats Against the Current

The _Glasgow Smile_ was not, surprisingly, in flames by the time she came back. But it was closed.

That was a bad sign.

It was quiet outside, despite the fact that the club should have been operating already. Joker generally did good business; free drinks and a reliable place to get blow made the _Smile_ infamous—and famous—in Gotham.

She opened the door; it wasn’t locked. It gave little resistance. The room was dark, barely lit. There were bodies up near the bar, a TV the only sound. The henchmen were sitting, drinking and watching in silence. Good.

It was time to execute part one of the plan she'd thought up on the run back over her: ensure loyalty.

“God damn,” Panda said, breaking the silence as he turned toward the door. She smiled, despite her nerves—she’d learned long ago to be a good actress to try to weather hhe Joker's unpredictable behavior. “Shit, Quinn!”

“Hello, boys,” she grinned, waving coyly. She sidled up to the bar with all eyes on her like it was the most natural thing in the world. Harleen had always been a wallflower, but Harley—Harley knew how to rev a man’s engines, and she was good at it, when it suited her. ( _Emotional manipulation_ , Harleen would call it, and, sometimes, still did.)

“Wow,” one of the little lackeys said, her bared legs looking miserably cold in this weather. Harley made a mental note to get the girls some assless chaps for strippin’ instead of Joker’s preferred bikinis and fishnets. “We _thought_ you was dead.”

That was the first challenge. The inflection left little doubt that little miss fishnets didn't appreciate her return – but she could fix that.

“Sorry.” She leaned up on the bar; Pookie wordlessly threw her a beer, and she took a sip while she kept her eyes on the girl. “Hard to kill.” The girl looked down, and the challenge was over with. Good. Joker didn’t tolerate fools, but Harley had no intention of killing everyone who tried to grumble.

No point in bein' queen of an empty palace, after all.

There were no smiles to see her, but no one had pulled a gun yet either. All in all, she’d consider that a success.

“What happened?” Panda asked, his tall, lanky frame leaning hard against the bar. “How’d you get away when they caught boss?”

“The Bat could only take one of us. I tried to keep him occupied, but…” Her eyes looked down, hiding her lie with false shame. “He knew which of us was the higher value target, and he disabled me.”

“Happens to the best of us,” Batsy said, patting her shoulder. He wouldn’t have, had the Joker been there, that she knew—Joker didn’t tolerate sympathy any more than her tolerated weakness. But with him in the pokey, it was welcome, and she nodded, grateful. No one challenged that either. Maybe the crew would be easier to win over to her side after all.

“So what are we gonna do now, Miss Quinn?” one of the younger pushers asked, her eyes wide. Harley stared at her a second too long, wondering how old she was. She surely couldn’t be older than sixteen, seventeen; kid didn't even have the barest hints of smile lines. She hadn’t known Joker was recruiting them _that_ young to push blow. _Who better to find a new audienc_ e, Harleen whispered in the corner of her mind, and Harley wished she could sigh mentally. Harleen had some good points, but her other half was kinda a dick to kick her when she was down like this.

“We gotta get J back,” Nixon said, his voice nearly as gravely as the man whose face he wore. “There’s no point in being here if we don’t do that.”

And there it was. The second challenge.

The room fell quiet, and Harley watched for a split second the reactions on people’s faces. Most were nodding, and so she said what she knew they wanted to hear, even if it wasn’t what she wanted to say. She could always tell them it wasn't feasible later, once they'd gotten used to her...leadership.

“Yeah! Of course we are.” She rolled her eyes, as if she had never considered another. “Ain’t gonna be easy though. Might take a long time. But we will.”

“How do we do that?” Batsy asked; she noted that he seemed considerably less enthused than the rest and she filed that information away for safe-keeping. Batsy had always been soft on her; she wondered if maybe she could make a right-hand-man out of him after all.

“First, we need to know where they’re keeping him long-term.” She said, staring at the television. Right now, he was going to be in the courtroom, and that was going to be no-go. The security would be heavy, the hallways too cramped to really fan out to cause mayhem. “So we pay attention 'til they announce where he’s goin’ to be cooped up before his trial.”

“Right.” Nixon seemed not entirely pleased by this—he was more a guns blazin’ type, which was why he was generally on the more smashy-smashy missions—but it was a sound enough plan that he voiced no further challenge. “What then?”

“We figure out how to bust’em. Hopefully it’s Arkham—I know that place inside and out.” There was no reason to explain that one. “Scottie, Malone—you guys still remember the floor plan?”

“Yeah.” Malone said, shifting his fedora so he could meet her eyes. “I ‘member.” He didn’t say what she certainly remembered of their first meeting: Bugsy holding her town and putting restraints on her, so Joker could slam electricity in her, thousands of volts that fried what was left of Harleen. Harleen only existed in fragments now, in the darkest corners of what had been her mind. It was painful, beyond painful. And made worse by the fact that her captor stood above her, cackling in wait and — no, she frowned, shook her head slightly. She had to focus on the present.

Scottie, who had been a talkative gent before the Joker removed his tongue, simply nodded.

“Good.”

One of the newest, rawest recruits—a young lass, though Harleen couldn’t and wouldn’t guess her age—raised her hand as if she was in a classroom. Harley suppressed her desire to wince, then nodded.

“What’s up, Hello Kitty?” They never called one another by their own names, often choosing to adopt the guise of fiction characters. Most newer members struggled with it, but Hello Kitty—with her bright pink bow and kitty-cat eyeliner—never really struggled. She didn’t look like a drug pusher, and Harley didn’t want to know what Joker had been using her for.

“What do we do til then, Miss Quinn?” She sounded so small, and Harley pursed her lips. It was a good question, and she cold see several of J’s more experienced henchies raising their eyes to her, looking for her answer.

She pressed her lips together. “We do what we do best,” she said, grinning into her beer. “Mayhem.”

A muted cheer rose up among the henchies. She smiled, pleased that it had been easier than she had thought to take command. At least initially.

She doubted that this was the last round of challenges she'd face.

She looked across the crowd; they were still, for the most part, sipping their beers and alcohol in silence.

“Round on me, boys,” she said, raising a glass. A few said thanks, but there were no cheers. But no open challenge for now was, at least, a good thing.

\- - -

Harley wasn’t used to running the club.

She had watched the Joker do it, but he’d always kept her at a distance—never wanted her to get _too_ close to their finances, never wanting her to get too close to running through the club for herself. Joker had enjoyed keeping power; now, a day after he’d been put into police custody, Harley was struggling.

Joker never kept books. Books were a way for the police to getcha, he’d said, but that seemed a bit backwards when you were someone like Joker, who was hardly low-profile. Still, without them, she had little to do but try to follow the lines of the club, watching and observing what people were doing, to find out how many pies Joker’s bejeweled thumbs had wound up in.

There was blow,that much was obvious; Joker had originally risen in the drug trade, with some rather potent cocaine cut with a rather surprising amount of acid. That was still something the Smile was famous for providing, and from her vantage point at Joker’s table, she could see several pushers making deals for product. The line to the bathroom was long, and more than a few men and women who were otherwise not involved in their criminal enterprises came out with their noses a little redder, their eyes a little madder.

That left them open to the second of the club’s vices; prostitution. She hadn’t known for sure that Mister J had been running girls, but now she had little doubt. Nearly all the club’s strippers doubled as purchasable ladies of the night, and quite a few of the girls on the floor as well. She watched Kitty grove against a guy surely three times as old as she was, her slim and nubile body gliding across his larger and wider frame. He had a hand—possessive—on her neck, and Harley watched not out of lechery but rather to make sure no harm came to the young girl.

That wasone thing she was planning on doing to try to keep J’s henchies loyal to her: to simply treat them better. J had kept everyone on a thin leash, but he could be negligent when it came to ensuring henchie safety. Safety begot security, and Harley was making sure to keep her girls nice and secure.

The old man’s hand tightened on Kitty’s throat, and Harley stood. Kitty gasped; that was enough. Harley strutted over as fast as her polystyrene seven inch heels could carry her.

“Excuse me,” Harley said, smiling through murderous rage. She put a hand on the man’s hand on her neck and he disengaged, startled. “There a problem here?”

Kitty looked up at her with nothing but gratitude in her eyes, and she saw the thickness of the red marks on the throat—he hadn’t planned on letting go any time soon. “No, miss,” she said quietly, though, and Harley stared down at her, incredulous.

And then she realized that this must have been what Joker had walked them through. Don’t make trouble. A paying customer is a happy customer.

Angry, she turned toward the man, whose nervousness had faded to confidence once Kitty had warned her away. “You heard the lady.”

“Look mister,” She pursed her lips. “We don’t condone that kind of play, not here.”

“That so,” he said, coolly.

“That’s so.” She nodded, then gestured toward Scottie, who was watching them from his post in the corner. “Would be a real shame if I had to get security involved because you couldn’t keep your hands off the girls.”

“Look,” the man said, holding up his fingers. “I don't think you understand the kind of racket the Joker runs here. And I’m not interested in a three-way so… Why don’t you run back to wherever they keep girls like you at?”

“Yeah, well, Mister J ain’t here. And we ain’t interested in a three way neither,” she snarled, pulling Kitty off of his lap. Kitty gave a surprised cry, and Harley pointed toward the door. “Door’s that way.”

“I want to speak with the Joker,” The man spluttered, turning red. She grinned.

“He’s out. I’m running the show now, and if I say you’re out…” She snapped her fingers. “You’re out.”

Buggsy came out of the shadows, his eyes locked with the fat man's large nose.

“You haven’t heard the last of this,” the beaky man fumed, grabbing his bowler hat and waddling toward the door.

“Shit, what are you doing, Miss Quinn?” Kitty murmured, and Harley was surprised to see anxiety on her face. “That was Oswald Cobblepot.”

“Cobblepot, eh?” She raised her eyebrows. She’d heard of Cobblepot. He ran the Penguin Den, a bit more of a gentleman’s club downtown, the sort of club ladies weren’t invited into unless they were for sale. Not her kind of place, and Penguin had little reason to come around here when he had that at his disposal. He was checkin’ out the competition, she thought; and there was only one thing she could do to try to find out his motives: schedule a return trip.

\- - -

The Penguin Den was cold. She shivered in her gold lamé dress; men ogled her as she passed but she paid them no mind. She was not here to be subtle, to express any sort of warning. She was here to warn Penguin to stay off her property, to make her home safe. She had answered challenges from inside the gang; the Penguin would fall no different.

She managed to get in with little difficulty, which was surprising. She had expected after the kerfuffle at home that the Penguin would make sure she wouldn’t follow him, but perhaps he was complacent. Perhaps he saw her less as a threat and more akin to one of his girls.

Well, he’d soon learn that Joker’s girl packed a bigger punch.

She found him with little trouble, sitting in a dais in the top of the room. She slid into the table on the dais with little difficulty; his security—six men strong—not even raising a hand to stop her. Maybe he had pretty girls at his table all the time.

“Can I help you?” he asked, a thin cigarette between his lips.

She nodded, carefully leaning forward. She had her neckline low, and hoped there were no cameras. At the very least, she hoped there would be no way that the Joker could get a hold of this. She raised a cigarette case out of her jacket, pulled out a long cigar—a gift from Joker—and blew.

“Name’s Harley,” she said, softly, blowing another ring of smoke. He didn’t react, but then she knew perfectly well who he was and he knew it. He showed no sign of remembering what had happened the night before, and Harley, feeling a bit of a bitch, decided to prompt him. “We met yesterday, at the _Smile_.”

“Ah.” He remembered now, she could see; his face was dark and stormy. “To what do I owe the … pleasure… of your company, Quinn?”

“It's Miss Quinn to you right now,” she said, grinning. “And I’m here to deliver a warning: stay out.”

He didn’t respond right away, and she took the liberty to puff several drags of her cigar. It was a nice one, not unlike the nasty puffs that her father would take before he got out the drink but after he’d lectured her on what a disappointment she was. It had the warm scent of vanilla mixed with the scent of tobacco. It smelled like the fields outside her grandmother's farm in Mississippi.

“So you're...running the squad at the _Smile_ now, eh Ms. Quinn?”

  


“Yes.” She said. “Until further notice,” she said, but what she meant was _until I damn well don't feel like it._

  


“I will...take your warning under advisement,” he said, his face visibly cloudy. He definitely feared her clout.

  


“Thank you,” Harley said, and walked off a bit brighter.

 

\- - -

Gradually, she learned.

By the end of the first week, Harley knew when to start squeezing the patrons out. She surveyed her crew after they closed that first week; some of the women seemed peppier, now that she had stood up to Penguin. Kitty still looked nervous, but Tiny and Angel were both all smiles. Angel was still nursing a black eye—from what, she didn’t know, but if the girl felt safer in Harley’s care, then so be it.

She did not go home right away after the henchmen slowly filtered away, leaving only Bugsy and the other night guards, who had come late in the club’s shift. Joker had never trusted the place to go unsupervised, and now she wouldn’t either.

She'd been sleeping in the office. She didn’t want to go back to the halfway home she’d been staying in with Joker; she still saw his eyes when she closed her own, that last moment when she held the gun and didn’t fire. Instead, she stayed in his office, the door locked tight. It still smelt faintly of him; the news footage of his arraignment—no bond, the trial fast-tracked—making it harder still to believe he wasn’t actually there, leaning up behind her and whispering some crude words in her ear.

His trial would start tomorrow. A part of her wanted to be there, should be there—and a lot of her knew she shouldn’t be. She wasn’t Harleen anymore, and nothing would come of staring at him, all wrapped in chains. There was no chance he’d be declared innocent, not unless Harley was rigging the jury, and she wasn’t. She had been his slave long enough. With a bit of anger, she turned off the TV, relaxing into the Joker’s space. It was quiet without the roar of the television, and she paced the room.

It wasn’t fair that this reminded her solely of him, she thought. The smell would fade in time, but so much of it was done up in his aesthetics—the armchairs and coaches a garish combination of green and purple. It looked uncivilized. She made a note to get them reupholstered as soon as possible; red and black sounded better, more refined.

She caught a look of herself in the mirror—she looked different now, and it wasn’t just the sweater, black slacks, and new hair. There was something softer in the mirror, something she could detect but not quite trace. She wasn’t sure what it was, but stared in the mirror, pointedly.

She was distracted at her evaluation of her own expression (def hot, she thought; the softness suited her) by a rather insistent knocking on the door. She frowned; they didn’t do after-hours, the Joker had no patience and enjoyed the cruelty that was heightened by people needing him and having to _wait_.

He also trusted no one, and Harley took advantage, switching on the camera outside the door. It was hidden inside a rather innocuous-looking smiling gargoyle, and the lady huddled at the door took no notice of it. Even through the doorway, she could see the dirt on her face, the desperation.

She thought of her own teenage years, and how quickly she could have been a girl like this—all dirt and swollen bellied, shivering in the cold of Gotham’s night embrace. “Tracy,” she said, flickering on the intercom and addressing the guard closest to the door. “Let the kid in.”

She heard the hitch in Tracey’s voice, the silent question. But he offered her no reply but his obedience; years of working for Joker had worn away all his natural curiosity. He didn’t bear much resemblance to the comic character that the Joker had lampoonishly started calling him - not anymore, anyway—but the wrinkled old fedora meant the name stuck.

He opened the door, and Harley put on one of the Joker’s dusters that was left behind on the coat-rack. It was a nice thing; soft leather, imported. Way nicer than anything he’d bothered to give her. She checked herself out in the mirror once—it was a bit big, but it looked more intimidating than slubby, more Darth Vader and less Columbo.

She left the office and came down the stairs slowly; the girl kept her eyes on her but said nothing. Afraid to speak. She was crying, and wept openly. Tracy pointed his gun at her; standard procedure for visitors to the Joker’s realm.

“Put that down,” Harley said sharply. She stood in front of the girl. The Joker would have made her kneel before her, made her sit until her knees ached in a display of who knew better. But Harley was not the Joker. Instead, she knelt, keeping her face carefully even with the child. She pulled a fancy monogrammed handkerchief out of her bag, and wordlessly offered it.

“What’s with the shower, Raincloud?” she asked, as the girl dabbed at her tears. Tracy cleared his throat but she ignored him. The girl took a slow breath.

“You’re Ms. Quinn, right?” She sounded uncertain; scared. Harley’s eyes flicked to her wrists - no weapons.

“Depends on who’s asking.” She flickered a hand out; the girl grasped it with nothing less than desperation. Harley felt the dirt clinging to her, and her stomach sickened. “What’s going on, Kid? Someone hurt you?”

“Yes.” She pursed her lips for a second, visibly gathering her courage. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know where to go, except my friend—Angel—she says you stand up for your girls, and well…” She stood then, and Harley saw her clumsily laid upon, threadbare coat shift backwards, the full swell of her stomach visible. “I’m willing to offer myself to your…court. For a price.”

“Who you working for now?”

“I was under the Penguin’s cove, but…” She wiped her eyes. “He don’t treat us so good. And now that it’s getting hard to hide Bitsy here, well…” Her eyes welled with tears again, but she didn’t let them fall, her hands protectively resting on her tummy. “We just… He don’t take to children, Mrs. J. Angel said she thought…she thought maybe you could find a place for me? I know some men want a girl who’s…”

Harley held up a hand, unable to hear anymore. “We ain’t gonna set you to whoring, Kid.”

She had meant it to reassure the girl, but the girl crumpled, her eyes visibly welling with soft tears. “I - I see. I’m sorry I uh, I wasted — I’ll be going no—”

“How old are ya?” Harley asked, placing a hand on her shoulder to keep her from leaving.

“Fifteen,” she said, softly.

“Parents?”

“Dead.”

“Siblings?”

“None. One of the foster fams used to have ‘em but…The oldest, he wouldn’t leave me alone, and I had to go.”

Harley understood her then; she’d been abandoned to the ashes. She doubted the poor kid even had a runaway report out on her.

“You stay.” Harley said, softly. “We’ll figure out what to do with ya after you pop out junior over there, but you stay.”

“Oh, thank god.” The girl sobbed and ran forward, hugging Harley tight.

Harley held onto her, her gaze thoughtful. The ashes on the girl’s clothes rose up around her, and up close she could see the long-old scars. She swore softly and held her, and thought of what she could use the Smile to do.

She had fallen through the cracks; preyed upon. It wouldn’t be much, but maybe she could do for this girl what the Joker could never do for her—make her comfortable, help her rise from the ashes.

  


**Author's Note:**

> A great deal of thanks to the person who helped me a ton with this fic; her priceless grammatical instincts and succinct turns of phase are always a treat, and I am glad she remains my friend.


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